


The Schuylkill River Mill

by Sunnyrea



Series: The War [6]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF
Genre: 1777, Battle, Historical, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-12-01 10:15:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11484267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunnyrea/pseuds/Sunnyrea
Summary: Hamilton is sent on a mission to burn a flour mill along the Schuylkill River which leads to a battle, a presumed death, one aide-de-camp's distress, and a relationship growing closer.[Part of a series but can be read as a stand alone story]





	The Schuylkill River Mill

**Author's Note:**

> In honor of the day of Alexander Hamilton's death I have instead a story where he was thought to be dead but was not.

Alexander Hamilton dodges Richard Kidder Meade as he walks through Warwick Furnace farmhouse, General Washington’s current headquarters, a stack of letters from the morning courier in his hands. Robert Hanson Harrison nearly plows right into Hamilton as he rushes by, two books and some undefinable box balanced precariously on one arm. 

“Apologies, Ham!” Harrison calls over his shoulder.

Hamilton opens his mouth to reply but Harrison is gone around the corner. A pair of enlisted men stand in the front door as Hamilton passes by looking somewhat lost but he has no time to aid them. The British are marching toward Philadelphia and the Continental army is stationed between General Howe and the army’s supply lines deeper in Pennsylvania. It is not as though their army is not regularly in harm’s way, that is quite the point, but their supply lines are of the upmost importance. A starving army cannot fight nor can an army without powder or bullets.

“Have you the morning dispatches?”

Hamilton stops short a few feet from his Excellency’s current office as John Laurens appears in his path.

“Yes,” Hamilton replies indicating the stack in his hands. “A number from congress, I believe, and why are you standing here?”

Laurens glares at him. “I am well.”

“You are not,” Hamilton says swerving around Laurens.

Only a week past their forces engaged the British at Brandywine Creek. The battle itself was a mess what with miscommunication and conflicting information leading to a surprise British force where they did not expect and less time to meet such forces. The addition of fog and local loyalists aiding the British caused the battle to end decidedly not in their favor. 

As for Laurens, his ankle was hit during the battle by a cannon ball. Fortunately, the bone remained sound but his ankle was still severely sprained. It was advised he be put on sedentary duty for at least a fortnight. Laurens, however, is having difficulty heeding this advice. 

Laurens grabs after Hamilton as he walks by, snatching a few of the letters off the top of Hamilton’s pile.

“Laurens...” Hamilton groans but he limps ahead of Hamilton into the back study of the farmhouse, which has become the General’s office, opening one letter.

“Sir,” Laurens says as he reads, Hamilton standing behind him now, the two of them facing the General’s desk. “It appears Congress is considering fleeing the city.”

General Washington looks up from the map on his desk, his eyes darting back and forth between the two of them. 

Hamilton shuffles through the pile in his hands then holds out one letter. “From General Gates.”

General Washington takes the letter from Hamilton, breaking the seal, while still looking at Laurens. “Considering? The British march directly toward the city and we cannot guarantee their safety.”

The General glances at the Gates letter while he holds out his other hand for the letter Laurens holds. He then switches his hand and quickly reads the letter from Congress, his mouth moving with the words. Then he looks up again. He nods at the two of them. 

“Dismissed.” He holds out the Gates letter back to Hamilton. “Review them all and any pressing reports –”

“Yes, your Excellency,” Hamilton interrupts, knowing the usual pattern.

“And Laurens,” the General chides, “Do go sit down.”

“Sir, I am –”

“Hamilton, make him sit down.”

“Yes, sir,” Hamilton says definitively, shifting the letters to his one arm and gripping Laurens by the arm with his newly freed hand.

Laurens huffs as the walk out into the hall. “Hamilton...”

“You heard the General.”

Hamilton slows his walk to accommodate Laurens, even as Laurens tires to pretend he does not limp. They weave down the halls, past the dining room taken over with soldiers, some eating but most carrying dispatches and looking hurried. They have had many skirmishes close together and they are bound to have another soon with the British advance upon one of their most important cities.

“Hamilton, you need not grasp me so,” Laurens complains. “I will acquiesce.”

Hamilton makes a disbelieving noise as they walk past the dining room toward the library on the other side of the house commandeered by the aides-de-camp for the lion’s share of their paperwork.

“You say so now but I shall find you chasing after the next rider for news of British troops in ten minutes.”

Laurens sighs.

They reach the library where Meade is set up at one table, stacks of papers in front of him. Hamilton puts the correspondence down in a haphazard pile beside Meade’s careful stacks.

“Do not disrupt my –” Meade starts.

Hamilton interrupts, “I am to do them myself, fear not.”

Then Hamilton turns to Laurens still grasped in his hand. He pulls out a free chair, turns Laurens around and pushes him down into it.

“Hamilton...”

Hamilton grips Laurens’ hand then places it on the table. He picks up a quill and puts it in Laurens’ hand. “Stay here.”

“Have you been marching about again?” Meade asks Laurens.

“If you would both –”

Tench Tilghman appears behind Laurens’ chair and slaps three sealed letters down beside Laurens so he jumps in surprise and shuts his mouth. “From New Jersey, if you please.”

Hamilton blows out a breath. The activity is beyond busy and he worries some key intelligence may be lost with the rush of the morning, not yet gone nine. Hamilton sits down beside Laurens and begins cracking open wax seals on the letters before him, scanning each one quickly to determine what should rank highest. Meade’s piles across from them appear to be organized by General. Hamilton sees Maxwell and Heath nearest him.

“Are we adding to your piles?” Hamilton asks, holding up a letter from Major General Putnam.

Meade points to a far pile. “Putnam is here.”

“The scouts are back.”

Meade, Laurens and Hamilton at the table all look up at Joseph Reed in the doorway while Tilghman, drops the ledger in his hand onto the windowsill with a thump. 

“And?” Laurens asks.

“Were you walking around again?” Reed asks with narrowed eyes toward Laurens.

Laurens huffs loudly. “My ankle is not broken!”

“If it does not heal what good should you be to any of us?” Reed chides further.

“It is a bruise, bruises heal. I cannot be bound to one spot indefinitely! Would you carry me in a chair as our army marches?”

“The scouts, Reed?” Hamilton asks trying to get them back on track.

Laurens looks at him with a smile, shifting his foot under the table so it taps against Hamilton’s.

“General Wayne’s forces engaged the British two days ago. We are but now receiving reports of the casualties.”

The aides all make the same noise of exhaled breath.

“And?” Tilghman coaches.

“I know not, they are still speaking with the General; more about the lands around our position now, I believe.”

“Surely the British have not over taken us yet,” Meade says dryly, his head back down over his paper stacks.

“I shall alert you when they are at the door,” Laurens quips.

Tilghman snorts as he leans over the table, writing a note on a letter which appears to be from Baltimore.

“You will have to gauge which General deserves your saving of their messages most,” Tilghman jokes.

Hamilton chuckles. “Or perhaps Meade will have to find himself a musket and stay in space to defend the table at large.”

Meade scoffs and finally looks up at Hamilton. “The true purpose of the aide-de-camp, yes?”

Hamilton nods and smirks at him. “It appears to be the best command a man could hope for.”

Laurens knocks his knee against Hamilton’s. Hamilton looks over at him. He smiles despite himself as Laurens looks at him, a lock of hair fallen in his face.

Laurens and he have become fast friends since they met only a month and half ago now. It seems to Hamilton as if he can barely recall life without Laurens. In truth, they have become closer than friends. Hamilton still feels Laurens’ lips on his each day, the hot touch of his hand and Hamilton constantly thinks about having it all again. The war keeps them so busy, the thick of battles occurring every day, messages from all across the land, north and south, a non-stop flow of much needed information. Yet Hamilton keeps remembering how Laurens tastes, how he feels up close and how his eyes look when they stare only into Hamilton’s. He wants a chance to know if what began only weeks ago is something he should keep, something he wants to indulge with the full force of his being. 

When Laurens looks at him, when their knees touch under the table, when Laurens smiles, Hamilton knows the answer.

“Hamilton!”

Hamilton and Laurens jolt at the same time in their chairs like guilty children. Laurens raises his eyebrows at Hamilton as Hamilton looks over Laurens’ head to Reed back in the door. 

“The General would see you.”

Hamilton jumps up, knocking his quill to the floor. 

He hurries past Laurens and just notices Laurens’ hand touching his own as he breezes by. He smiles and wants to look back but restrains himself. Hamilton turns down the hall past smaller rooms until he reaches General Washington’s office once more.

“Sir?” he stops in the doorway as a Lieutenant shifts out past him.

“I have an assignment for you.”

Hamilton looks around for some blank paper to start whatever draft the General may have for him.

“No, no,” The General waves his hand seeing Hamilton’s searching look. “It is not with paper at this moment but with cavalrymen.”

Hamilton raises his eyebrows and tries to keep his excitement in check. “Cavalrymen?”

“Eight cavalrymen.”

Hamilton deflates somewhat, not exactly the command he would have hoped for but his rank has not changed recently and such a command as he should wish would likely not come so suddenly as this or without a promotion.

He walks further into the room. “And what is the assignment, sir?”

The General leans over one map on his long table and points toward the Schuylkill River. “With the advance of the British they are nearing our supply lines. However, the scouts have reported some farms and stores along the Schuylkill which they may encounter along the way.”

“And we would prefer they not gain anything on their march toward us.”

Washington glances up with a smile. “Quite right.” Then he taps the map at a point on the river. “There is a flour mill. You are to take Captain Henry Lee and seven Cavalrymen to burn the mill.”

Hamilton grins. “Yes, sir.”

The General stands up straight again. “If you can bring any of the stock back you have leave to do so but the destruction of the mill is your primary aim.”

“Yes, sir,” Hamilton repeats. “When are we to leave?”

“At once.” The General gestures toward the door. “I have sent the Lieutenant to rally your men.”

Hamilton nods. “Thank you, sir.”

Hamilton exits the office and heads back down the hall. He needs his hat and a sword before he should leave. Hamilton ducks back toward the aide-de-camp office. He strides into the room, Laurens, Meade and Tilghman still at the table. He glances around then sees his hat in the windowsill in the corner. He crosses the room and picks it up, tucking it under his arm. 

Laurens watches him from the table with a small frown. “You are leaving?”

“I have an assignment.”

Tilghman and Meade look up at him as well.

“Where?” Laurens asks, caution in his tone.

“Down river.” Hamilton cannot stop a grin. “I am to burn a mill.”

“A mill?” Meade says.

“To burn it?” Tilghman follows up.

“To keep it from the British,” Hamilton explains.

“Of course,” Tilghman and Meade say at once.

“Alone?” Laurens says incredulously.

Hamilton laughs once. “No, Laurens.” He walks around the table to Laurens’ side. “I have eight men accompanying me.”

Laurens’ expression is drawn, his lips tight. “And you are to leave now?”

Hamilton nods once.

Laurens’ hand twitches on the table then he balls it into a fist. Suddenly he stands up. “I can accompany you. I can ask the General –”

“You will not,” Hamilton says sternly.

“Laurens... sit,” Meade groans.

“It may just be an ankle to you –” Tilghman starts.

“You could use more help,” Laurens continues over Tilghman’s speech about the importance of every individual body part, only speaking to Hamilton. “Will eight men be enough to –”

“To burn a simple mill, yes,” Hamilton retorts.

“And your ankle is attached to your foot!” Tilghman concludes, Meade giving him a concerned sideways glance.

“He is aware, Tench,” Meade mutters.

“But, Hamilton,” Laurens continues. “Why you? Surely your talents are needed here. And I am able –”

“Why not him, Laurens?” Tilghman counters jovially. “You cannot take all the action from us aides.”

Hamilton smiles slowly. “Tench does speak true.”

Laurens’ mouth falls open. “I did not say –”

“You have said enough,” Hamilton shushes him, putting a hand on Laurens’ chest which makes his mouth close instantly. “And I must push on now. I have men waiting for me.”

Laurens clears his throat quietly then nods. He reaches up and covers Hamilton’s hand on his chest with his own. “Do be safe.”

Hamilton nods, his hand tense under Laurens’ where he wants to turn it over and grip Laurens’ hand tightly. “I will.”

Hamilton steps back, realizing how close he stands to Laurens with Meade and Tilghman just on the other side of the table, and moves toward the door. Laurens tries to hold him there by the hand for but a second longer and Hamilton finds himself looking back at Laurens as their hands part. Laurens smiles and nods, though his expression still looks stiff. Then Hamilton steps through the door and out into the hall, John Fitzgerald swerving around him with two Privates hot on his heels.

Hamilton walks briskly toward the front of the house. Two servant women bustle past him, their eyes dragging over him and Hamilton shoots them both a grin as they go by. He hears one laugh once quietly. He stops at a room taken over for supplies, tables pushed against walls and fine chairs regulated to corners. A Captain lines up muskets in a row then makes a sound of assent when he sees Hamilton.

“Yes, the General said you should be coming.” He picks up Hamilton’s sword and a pistol. “Both cleaned.”

“I could have –”

“No need for concern sir,” the Captain says, “And I believe Captain Lee is waiting for you outside.”

Hamilton nods as he fastens on his baldric then turns back toward the front of the house. He puts his hat on one handed, the pistol in his other, as he walks out into the sun. He sees eight men on horseback and one empty horse clearly waiting for him.

“Men, I am Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Hamilton,” he says quickly as he steps up onto the horse stand then swings into the saddle, a Private holding up the reigns to him. “I trust you know our mission?”

“Yes, sir,” the Captain confirms.

Hamilton stows his pistol, pats his horse on the neck then makes a clicking noise, curving his horse to the left. “Then off we go, quick and clean.”

They ride for several miles, the sound and view of camp falling behind them as they follow the river. Their pace slows for a while, what with some of the rocky Pennsylvania countryside but the woods are well lit with the morning sun, the fall leaves a pleasant sight as they ride.

Captain Lee keeps pace with Hamilton, a map in hand. “We should be near.”

Then, not a minute after Lee says so, they hear the sounds of falling water different from that of the river. Around a bend, they see the mill structure, the water wheel moving through its millrace.

“Our mill,” Hamilton says.

“Daviser’s Ferry,” Lee says. “This is our stop.”

“Martin. Brown.” Hamilton calls behind him. Two men ride up closer. “Scout around the far side.”

“Perry, Thomas,” Hamilton points. “You are to check inside for anything we may be able to carry with us. The rest with me and we shall ready fires.”

The group rides forward to their respective positions. The house is a tan stone, two story and seemingly quiet at present. Hamilton eyes the far side of the wide river as they ride forward. He has some scruples about destroying private property like this but the British would do the same were they to arrive first. Hamilton stops at the building and dismounts his horse, two men doing the same beside him. He gazes down at the river and sees a flat merchant boat meant to haul flour to Philadelphia tethered at the edge of the river. Should the British catch them in the act here it would do well to have an escape option other than the road.

“Rogers?” 

One of the men still in seat trots up next to Hamilton. “Sir?”

Hamilton points, “secure that boat for us should we require an exit.”

The man hops off his horse in a far more graceful manner aided by height than Hamilton could manage, then jogs down the hill toward the water.

Hamilton turns back to the mill. He looks up and down the house, trying to choose the best place to begin the blaze. The wheel is wet but the beams which hold it in place and connect it to the house have dry portions. If they were to set a fire there, it should burn and cause the wheel to fall. The wheel would be rendered useless and the fire should spread through the mill. There should be ample flammable points inside with all the mill gears and wooden parts.

“Parker,” Hamilton starts to the closest man to him. “Bring flint and we will –”

Suddenly, Hamilton hears the sound of a musket shot and one of his men shouts something unintelligible. Hamilton ducks instinctively and puts his back to the building. 

“Sentries!” Lee shouts pulling out his pistol.

Another shot hits the building on their side and Hamilton sees a flash of red coats from up in the trees deeper into the woods.

“Return fire!” Hamilton cries to his men.

He hears musket fire from his men, Lee riding back down the road for a different view and the two men riding around the back of the house. Hamilton grabs his horse’s reigns, manages to get his foot into one stirrup and heaves himself back up onto his horse. He pulls his pistol out from its sheath on the horse’s saddle and fires off a shot at the redcoats he clearly sees among the trees. There were indeed two sentries making their way through the trees but Hamilton now sees far more behind them.

“Dragoons!” Parker shouts. 

Another shot from the British zips past Hamilton and he hears a shout. Thomas falls down onto his knees just as he exits the mill, blood dripping on the ground as he falls forward.

“Pull back, behind the mill!” Hamilton cries

However, a line of British have come down the hill and cut between Hamilton and Captain Lee. Lee looks at Hamilton for a moment, looks at the British troops then urges his horse down into the shallow water of the millrace, past the mill wheel. Parker and their last man, Pickens, ride after Lee toward the bridge, clearly trying to draw the British after them. Hamilton hears a shout from the British side and a number of the redcoats give chase to Lee and the other men on horseback.

“Damn it!” Hamilton curses as he retreats behind the building to regroup the rest of the men.

Fortunately, most of the British appear to be following Lee. Hamilton may be able to take down the mill and still get the rest of them out of here with Lee as a distraction.

“Perry!” Hamilton shouts as he sees the man running out of the front of the mill, a small bag of flour in his hands. Hamilton cannot stop a laugh. “Hungry?”

Perry grins up at Hamilton as he straps the bag securely to his horse. “You did say anything we could use, sir.”

“And while under fire, good man.”

Hamilton pulls his powder and shot from the bag on his horse, refilling his pistol while keeping his eye on the tree line. Martin and Brown ride up from the other side of the the mill, their pistols out. 

“Sir, some of the British still remain on the far side marching our way.”

“We may yet be able to salvage this,” Hamilton says, gesturing with his newly loaded pistol. “The door will have to do, if we can set –”

Then another shot flies past Hamilton hitting Brown’s horse. The horse whinnies high, stumbles and Brown falls with a shout. He manages to roll away and not be crushed under the weight of the animal. Perry, still on the ground, drops to his knees with flint in his hand. He tries to catch a spark in the grasses near the door.

“Here!” Martin cries, pulling a handkerchief from his coat pocket.

“Faster!” Hamilton shouts, shooting his pistol toward the British coming from the other direction.

There are too many of them. They have only minutes, less than that if they do not make a retreat now.

“Ah ha!” Perry cries.

Hamilton looks down and sees smoke rising from the handkerchief and dry grass.

“But will it be enough to –” Martin starts.

“We have no time,” Hamilton says. “Leave it.”

“Sir!” Brown shouts from the corner of the mill, his nose bloody from his fall.

Hamilton looks where he points and sees the dragoons which had pursued Lee riding along the river. They are cut off on both sides.

“Damn,” Hamilton gasps.

He cannot die here, not without a real command, not for a blasted mill, not with him leaving Laurens back at the house with such a look on his face. The boat and river must be their option now.

“The scow!” Hamilton cries. “We must withdraw. Perry, help Brown. Follow me!”

Perry reaches down with both hands to pull Brown up and on to the horse, behind him. Another volley of shots, coordinated now, hit the mill and the wheel in front of them. Wood splinters and Hamilton puts up an arm quickly to shield himself. He feels wood hit his wrist and hears one of the men shout in surprise. He pulls his arm down and leads the men left, away from the mill where the smoke is building, hopefully catching enough to overtake the structure. Hamilton, however, cannot wait and see.

They ride down the hill toward the river where Rogers is waiting with the boat. Hamilton reaches the boat first, driving his horse straight on. The boat is big enough and meant for heavy loads. His horse does not even shy or protest, hitting the wood hard. 

As Hamilton turns in his seat to call to his men, a gunshot suddenly hits his horse somewhere behind Hamilton’s view. Hamilton hears Rogers shout something then his horse twists, screaming in protest and they both fall hard, the boat bouncing and straining against the rope holding it fast. The breath goes out of Hamilton as he lands on the wood, his pistol falling from his hand. He bites his teeth together, counts to three, then opens eyes he did not know he had closed. He looks to his right and see his horse writhing on the wood. They missed each other by mere inches when they fell. Rogers tries to control the animal as the horse twists again, hooves sliding around. Its eyes are wide and wild. Rogers grabs at its reigns but it shifts to the side into the shallow water, standing for a moment before it falls to its knees. Hamilton sees blood streaming down its back flank. There is certainly no riding it now.

“Sir!” Perry and Brown clatter onto the boat still on the horse, Martin right behind them.

Hamilton sucks in a deep breath then heaves himself up again to his knees then back to his feet. “Cut the rope, Martin!” he shouts. “Get us moving!”

Martin turns on his horse, his sword out. However, before he can cut the rope Hamilton hears the sound of a shot and blood spurts from Martin’s neck. He makes a choked noise and falls back off his horse and into the water. His horse screams, rearing up and galloping off the boat toward the shore. Hamilton rushes to the rope, his own sword out, and slashes through it with three rapid hacks. He casts a look at Martin but his eyes are open and staring as he bumps against the shoreline.

Brown fires another shot at the line of redcoats coming far too close down the hill as Hamilton uses an oar to push the boat away from the shore and out into the water

“They’re coming!” Perry shouts. “Would they wade the –”

“We cannot wait!” Hamilton snaps. “Help me.”

Perry slides awkwardly off his horse, hopping a few times before he grasps a second oar, pushing against the riverbed with Hamilton to get them out into deeper water. Rogers tries for the sail but the bucking of the boat in the current keeps knocking him into the mast.

“The fire, I don’t know if it –” Brown starts.

“We cannot go back,” Perry interrupts, blond hair falling in his face.

Hamilton stares at Perry for a moment, no sound around him. There is blood on Perry’s collar, his eyes wide and sweat on his brow as he pushes with the oar. He looks so much like Laurens that Hamilton’s chest hurts. Then suddenly a gunshot hits Brown in the arm. He groans and falls forward over the saddle, gripping his arm.

“Richard!” Perry cries.

“I am well,” Brown groans.

Shots hit the water behind their boat, the British finally having reached the shoreline. Hamilton sees now many of the coats of the men horseback are green instead of the regular’s red. It seems funny to him for some reason. He looks around and sees his pistol near the edge of the boat, not actually fallen in the water. He grabs it up, drops his oar then pulls at the powder bag on Perry’s horse.

“Help him down,” Hamilton says to Rogers of Brown. “We may yet get away.”

“They aren’t like to swim after us,” Brown says through gritted teeth as Rogers pulls him off the jittery horse.

“We should hope,” Rogers replies.

Hamilton quickly adds powder and ball to his pistol, nearly dropping the ball in his hurry. Another shot from the enemy hits the boat, sending wood flying. It sounds like the British fire at them with carbines as well as their muskets and pistols. 

Hamilton shuts his eyes and hears the horse stamping its feet, their boat shifting hard from side to side. He turns his head toward the shore, pistol ready. Hamilton opens his eyes – sees the blue eyes of a boy certainly no older than seventeen, his feet in the water – Hamilton fires his pistol. The boy’s mouth gapes, his musket falls and he hits the water without a sound from his lips. 

Another shot hits the small mast of the boat, the sail whipping around with the wind to hit the horse in the face. The horse bucks as Perry tries to grasp the reigns.

“The boat is too slow,” Brown says as some of the regulars have begun to wade into the shallower portion of the water to shorten the distance of their fire.

“Can you swim?” Hamilton asks the three men.

Brown stares at him aghast but Rogers nods and Perry answers, “Yes.”

“Then we shall swim.”

“The horse…” Rogers starts to say in dismay but Perry waves a hand at him. “The horse will have a fine ride and swim when it needs.”

“My arm, sir, I –” Brown begins

“We will help you,” Hamilton says. “We have no choice. The boat moves too slowly with us and your horse; the dragoons may be bolder than we should wish. Speed is our ally.”

“Yes, sir,” Perry said as he drapes Brown’s uninjured arm over his shoulder.

Hamilton looks up at the horse. If he were overly prudent, he would slay the animal to avoid the British taking it.

“Make for the far shore,” Hamilton says as he slides up on Brown’s injured side, Rogers covering the three of them with his pistol up. “Do the best you can and we shall get to the other side.”

Brown looks tired but he nods. “Yes, sir.”

The four of them jump into the water. The current attempts to draw them down almost immediately. For a few seconds Hamilton sinks in the water, the rush of the river pulling him away too fast. He thinks of Laurens’ face close to him, the sound ‘Alexander’ from Laurens’ lips. Then Hamilton gasps, head above water. 

Years of Hamilton’s youth on an island were not for naught. He swims hard, attempting to keep his eye on the other three men. Brown falls back almost at once, Perry trying to pull him on. Rogers disappears under the water and, for what seems like too long, Hamilton cannot find him. Then Rogers breaks the water again, drawn downstream from them but still within sight. Hamilton slows, moving his arms only to keep himself abreast with Perry and Brown and not be pulled down stream too. He hears a few more gunshots behind them but none near enough now.

Hamilton reaches back and helps Perry pull Brown, the man slipping under the water far too often. Hamilton feels how heavy his uniform is now soaked through, his boots cumbersome. He wonders if swimming such a fast river was the best idea but the only way out now is through.

“Use your feet,” Hamilton cries to Brown. 

Brown moves forward, kicking hard. It takes them near twenty minutes of swimming, the current taking them further downstream so they can no longer see the British troops. Rogers draws closer to them, a stronger swimmer than Hamilton would have thought, and manages to help pull Brown with Perry. 

They finally make it to shore, Brown looking half drowned and all four of them completely water logged. Hamilton sits on the dirt, hunched over his knees breathing heavily. Brown lies on his back groaning quietly, Rogers stumbling up through the trees to check their position, while Perry slowly tries to stand.

“I shall never swim again,” Perry mutters.

Hamilton cannot stop a bark of a laugh.

He glances at Brown, his face pinched. Hamilton reaches up and pulls at his neck cloth. He gets it undone after some work with its damp state then leans over Brown. “Sit up.”

Brown makes a pained noise but does as Hamilton asks. Hamilton wraps the cloth around the wound in Brown’s arm, tying it off tightly so Brown hisses.

“There, if it should still be bleeding after the river that should aid.”

“Thank you sir,” Brown says.

All of them back on their feet, Hamilton surveys their surroundings. He sees no British on the opposite shore. Farther into the trees, Rogers looks back with a shake of his head.

“We must head back toward camp,” Hamilton says.

Hamilton climbs up the hill through the trees, Brown and Perry behind him. They cut through the brush until they find a road and follow it, keeping the river to their right. Hamilton is unsure how far down stream they were carried but it could not have been more than a mile, he hopes. They walk for several hours, keeping an eye open for the British advance. They find a ford in the river with a low bridge as yet undisturbed by either side of the war and cross the river once more, no enemy in sight.

It is nearing dark when they reach Warrick Furnace Farm once more. They find most of the General’s staff and troops are no longer at the house.

“They crossed the river again some hours past,” the servant at the door tells them.

“Perry, Rogers,” Hamilton says, “See to Brown.” He glances at the servant. “We have some men yet remaining here?”

The man nods and gestures along the side of the house. Hamilton nods to the three men. “Follow the advance when you are sufficiently ready.”

Then Hamilton hurries inside the house. The bustle and rush of only earlier that morning has changed to an air of abandonment. Tables are still in disorder for a farmhouse but now lie near empty, papers packed up and muskets gone. He finds a pair of Lieutenants counting the supplies that remain, getting them loaded into carts to follow the rest of the staff and army.

“Have we a rider going to Philadelphia?” Hamilton asks one of them.

“The last before we leave, in less than an hour, sir.”

Hamilton nods and moves on toward the room they had used for their office. He needs to get a message to Philadelphia. The letter this morning only said the Congress were considering leaving and with the British so close then must certainly escape now. Hamilton finds little left in the aide-de-camp office; however, when he returns to the front parlor he finds a few pieces of blank paper left with the messages meant for the courier. Hamilton writes out a short message for John Handcock, president of Congress.

_If Congress have not yet left Philadelphia, they ought to do it immediately without fail, for the enemy have the means of throwing a party this night into the city._

Hamilton writes a few lines more, signs his name then blows on the ink. He folds up the letter quickly and looks about for some wax.

“Can I not seal this?” He mutters in frustration.

“Sir.” He turns to see one of the men who he believes may own the house; they had been here only a short time so Hamilton met few of the civilians. The man holds out some wax and a seal. “There should be a candle in the kitchen.”

“Thank you, sir.” 

Hamilton hurries past the older man in what he hopes is the direction of the kitchen. He bursts through one door making the poor kitchen maid shout in alarm.

“My apologies.” He walks over to her fire, crouches low and holds the wax stick over it; it will do well enough.

“Sir, are you quite well?” She asks.

Hamilton looks up at her. “Well?”

She points at his head. Hamilton reaches up with his other hand and feels a long gash. It stings when he touches it. How he had not noticed it before is quite beyond him. He looks at his hand but no blood comes back now.

“I am well,” he replies then turns back to the wax.

The wax begins to drip onto the stone of the hearth so Hamilton catches some of it on the letter’s fold. He moves to the kitchen table, pushing aside a roller, and presses the soft wax against his letter. It is crude but he shoves the stamp into the wax he can drip and wipe against the letter fold. He waits a moment then pulls the seal back. It is mushed but the pages stay fast.

“Fine.” He flashes a smile at the maid. “Thank you for the fire.”

“I....”

But Hamilton hurries back through the door to the front of the house. He sees the messages being carried to the door. 

“I have one yet for you, Sergeant!”

He jumps out the door after the man as he turns around. “For Congress, most urgent, please.”

The man looks Hamilton up and down, still somewhat damp about his uniform, cut on his head, exhaustion likely in his features. “Yes, sir.”

Hamilton nods in thanks then leans back against the doorjamb. He has done all he can for the time. He glances down the length of the house wondering where Perry and Rogers have gone. Hopefully someone is left to see to Brown.

“Sir, you must stay for the night.”

Hamilton turns to see the same older man who gave him the wax.

“Ah.” Hamilton stands up straight and holds up the seal and wax. “Thank you.”

“You are most welcome,” the man says as he takes them, “but it is late, you cannot follow the rest now.”

Hamilton looks around, the light dim with the sun so low. He watches the rider put the last of the messages into his saddlebag and turn his horse about.

Hamilton thinks about Laurens, of him telling Hamilton to be safe. “I will be needed.”

“Your army is thousands.” Hamilton turns in surprise to the man again. He smiles. “You can spare a night of sleep.”

“I...”

“Trust me, my boy, your uniform is wet as if you have swum a river. If you should march now you will likely fall sick and be less use when you arrive.”

“I... could not impose.”

The man chuckles. “Cannot impose more than a whole General’s office?”

Hamilton clears his throat awkwardly and feels much the child in this man’s eyes.

“Come, sir, sleep, dry and you may rise with the sun to follow the army across the river again.”

Hamilton bows to reason. “Thank you.”

Hamilton follows the man back into the house and thinks of Laurens’ face when he should return in the morning, his smile, and some remark about the cut on his head. Hamilton finds himself grinning as he follows the house owner back to a bed for the night.

 

Come morning, Hamilton does indeed rise with the sun and get underway. It is an easy task to follow the remains and tracks of the army across the Schuylkill once more. On the east side of the river, he learns General Washington has made his headquarters in Parker’s Ford Tavern. 

Hamilton chuckles to himself as he finds the tavern, a bustle of soldiers packing horses, a pair guarding the doors. “So many taverns...”

He salutes the men as he walks in and looks around for where the General may be.

Then Hamilton hears what sounds like the crash of china. “Hamilton!”

He starts in surprise at Tilghman standing at the break in the hall, a broken teacup at his feet. He is beaming.

“Tilghman?”

“My god, am I ever pleased to see you!”

Hamilton smiles. “Thank you?”

“We had from Captain Lee that you were dead! Shot or drowned, but lost.”

“Dead?”

“Yes!”

“Hamilton?” Reed comes up beside Tilghman with paper in hand. He huffs then addresses Tilghman. “You see, I said it would be impossible to kill the little lion so soon.”

Tilghman laughs and cuffs Reed on the shoulder. “Your face was as crestfallen as my own, do not put on such airs.”

Reed frowns at Tilghman then looks to Hamilton with a nod. “Best to let the General know of your rise from the dead.”

Hamilton clears his throat and nods. “And where might he be?”

Tilghman and Reed point to the right behind Reed. “He speaks with Laurens at present. You would do well to interrupt them.”

Hamilton passes Reed down the hall, past the open tavern area a bustle with various supplies and soldiers then again into a narrow back hall. He finds the office from the sound of the General’s voice. He hears Laurens reply something back, a quiet, ‘as you wish sir.’ His tone stops Hamilton still for a moment. He could not explain it – Laurens’ words steady, his same voice – but it sounds flat, as if a harpsichord string were broken and now the entire song has gone off kilter.

Hamilton moves forward again and raps quickly on the open door. “Your Excellency, sir?”

Washington looks up from his seat at the table and Laurens turns his eyes to Hamilton from where he stands on the other side.

Laurens takes a large step backward as if someone has pushed him and he breathes out a quiet, “Oh...”

Washington, however, smiles and stands up. “Why, Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton.”

Hamilton steps into the room toward the General. “Sir.”

“I see the report of your death was premature.”

“Indeed it was.”

“Captain Lee returned to us yesterday with a report of British dragoons and regulars ambushing your mission.”

“Yes, sir. Three men returned with me, we lost a fourth on the river. We attempted to destroy the mill in time but had to retreat.”

The General nods. “You may write up your report to me as well. For now if you should need to rest –”

“Certainly not, sir,” Hamilton interrupts despite himself. “I can return to work at once.”

The General chuckles then nods. “As you will, Hamilton.” He glances at Laurens then nods toward the door. “Both of you.”

Hamilton looks at Laurens again. His expression is odd, far away, but he nods as well. The two of them turn out of the office and into the hall. Hamilton does not know exactly where in the tavern the aides-de-camp are working at present. Laurens says nothing by way of direction or comment. Hamilton finds this upsetting for some reason.

So Hamilton speaks instead, “Laurens, I am pleased to see you.”

Laurens heaves out a loud breath, his hand suddenly gripping Hamilton’s. “Oh, Hamilton...”

Hamilton stops at the break in the hall and stares up at Laurens. Laurens turns his head slowly, a small smile on his face. He shakes his head once.

“Hamilton!” Meade suddenly comes running toward them, grabbing Hamilton’s hand and shaking it hard. “How could you make us worry so?”

Meade drops an arm over Hamilton’s shoulder and walks them on down the hall, Laurens just behind, as Meade rambles on about empty chairs and unwritten letters. Hamilton hardly hears with how much he wishes to look back at Laurens.

When Hamilton walks through the door to what appears to be a private room of the tavern, some barrels against one wall and two tables in the center, Harrison and Fitzgerald crow in delight, both talking over the other about Lee’s return.

“He was most upset about your loss.”

“And the description of your rallying cry to the river,” Fitzgerald laughs. “You must tell us all.”

Harrison points with a book. “And did the mill burn after all?”

“Or perhaps we could all set to work?” Reed interrupts. “As much as the story must entertain.”

“Are you wet?” Meade mutters sniffing Hamilton’s shoulder.

Hamilton cannot help but be pleased at the perceived sorrow of his loss and good words from Captain Lee of his brief command. When he sits at one table, the other aides calmed and focused on their correspondence piles yet again, Laurens sits down close beside him. Despite how near they sit, however, Laurens does not touch him. Hamilton does not notice it as something amiss until at least an hour later when he reaches for a new quill and Laurens pulls out of the way.

The aides work the day away, Hamilton writes orders from General Washington to General McDougall, Harrison runs back and forth attempting to organize their supplies, while Meade keeps track of the riders and any news coming from Philadelphia. Laurens stays steadfast beside Hamilton. When Hamilton rises to speak to the General, he finds Laurens waiting in the hall with a quiet, “All is well?” Then he walks the two of them back to their tavern room once more, Laurens immediately back writing away to send orders throughout the army for the planned march that evening. Laurens, however, does not touch Hamilton again since he gripped Hamilton’s hand in the hall when Hamilton first saw him. Hamilton finds his skin itches for the want of Laurens’ touch now. What has Hamilton done to offend Laurens?

Tilghman appears in the door as the sun falls low with a, “come eat, men, we will march a few hours after to Flatland ford.”

As they all rise to follow Tilghman to food, Hamilton puts a hand on Laurens arm and stops him. “Laurens, wait.”

Laurens stops and looks back at Hamilton in earnest.

“I...” Hamilton realizes he does not know how to ask ‘why will you not touch me?’ “Have I offended you?” He asks quietly instead.

Laurens frowns in confusion. “Offended me?”

“Yes.”

“Why would you think that?”

“I... because, since I... you have not…” Hamilton sighs in frustration.

Laurens reaches out and takes Hamilton’s wrist in his hand. Hamilton sighs in relief without meaning to. Then Laurens pulls him from the room. They twist down the hall past the kitchen, Laurens looking about quickly to see if they are observed, then into what must be a storeroom, one small window in the corner. Laurens closes the door behind them so only the fires from the camp outside allow them light to see.

“Laurens?”

Laurens shifts his hand down from Hamilton’s wrist to cover his fingers. He pulls up his other hand and takes Hamilton’s free hand. “When Lee returned and he told us about your mission, that you were lost. He thought you dead by British fire over the river.”

“I am not.”

“No, you are not, but...” Laurens’ fingers squeeze tightly. He huffs quietly and Hamilton can just see Laurens’ expression as his eyes adjust to the light. “I thought you dead.”

Laurens looks into Hamilton’s eyes and Hamilton sees now, even in the dim light, how very fearful Laurens had been. He realizes with unexpected clarity that Laurens did not touch him because if Laurens had, he would not have been able to let go.

“It was but a night, this morning but... Alexander, I would never wish to feel such a way again.”

“I am alive,” Hamilton says definitively. He pulls one hand away from Laurens’ grasp and touches Laurens’ cheek. “You see, I stand here now; I am alive.”

Laurens nods once. He runs his free hand along the cut over Hamilton’s forehead, then forces a smile. “You are.”

Hamilton smiles. “I would not let the British take me so easily.”

Laurens laughs once as his hand lingers on Hamilton’s cut. “Of course not.”

“I did not...” Hamilton clears his throat and shrugs. “I did not imagine you would be so affected by my loss.”

Laurens drops his hand then grips Hamilton’s shoulder tightly, his other hand still in Hamilton’s squeezing. “You are my dear friend, Hamilton, do you not know how I... I have said I care for you, it is not just esteem, you know this.”

“Yes, I... I did...” But he did not realize how much. 

They have had such little time. He has barely held Laurens in his arms; he has barely begun to know the touch of his hand. 

“We have barely begun,” Laurens says echoing Hamilton’s thoughts. “You dead and we had barely started; we had not had a chance.”

“But I am alive,” Hamilton reminds him. “And we have time.”

Hamilton shifts his hand from Laurens’ cheek to his neck and pulls him close. Hamilton kisses Laurens hard, proves he is not some specter but a man risen from the river alive. Laurens gasps into the kiss, lets go of Hamilton’s hand and wraps his arm around Hamilton, pulling him close. Hamilton remembers how Laurens feels – how he felt the first time – Hamilton focuses on where Laurens’ hip bones hit his torso, how soft Laurens’ hair feels under Hamilton’s hand, how he kisses with urgency, how he breathes sharply through his nose so he does not have to pull away, how he shifts one foot between Hamilton’s when they stand together. 

Hamilton kisses him slowly, trails his hand down the little skin available to him, tries to find space under Laurens’ cravat for his fingers to search. Laurens’ hands fall low, his thumb on the hollow of Hamilton’s hips, curving around the small of his back. Hamilton shivers; Laurens has never touched him here before and it is like a gunshot right beside his ear.

Laurens pulls back just enough to speak. “May I keep you here in this small closet, no muskets should find you here, no water current.”

Hamilton chuckles against Laurens lips still close to his. “And we should starve instead.”

Lauren huffs and presses his forehead against Hamilton’s. “No...”

Hamilton breathes in and out slowly, trying to capture this moment in his memory so he will always recall how Laurens’ feels just like this. He wants to know everything, every hand touch, every kiss, what Laurens’ skin feels like on Hamilton’s. If he may die the next day, he wants to have had this.

Laurens leans back and stares at him for a moment. Then he pulls away, his smile guarded and Hamilton remembers how little they have actually touched so far, how few kisses they have had.

“I shall do my best to stay alive for you,” Hamilton says to ease Laurens’ tension.

Laurens makes a ’hmm’ noise. “You could stay alive for yourself as well.”

“And for the army, of course.”

“For the country?”

They both smile. Hamilton reaches out and takes Laurens' hand again. “I am sorry I caused you worry.”

“You were not to know, as far as you knew, you were alive.”

“Ha, yes, indeed.”

“I am....” Laurens takes Hamilton’s other hand and squeezes them both. “I am very glad you are alive.”

Hamilton smiles, starts to make an offhand remark but thinks for a moment about how few people he dares to allow close, how many he would truly wish to say such to him like this. He steps close and kisses Laurens again.

“I am glad to be alive too.” He wants to say, ‘because I have you.’ How has he began to care so much for Laurens so quickly?

“We should...” Laurens smiles and rubs his thumb over the back of Hamilton’s hand. “We should join the others for dinner.”

“We should.”

“We will be missed.”

“We are missed now.”

Laurens laughs. “You would rather stand here in the dark?”

“I came near death. I should deserve a break.”

Laurens laughs again. “I recall the General asking if you would like a rest and you –”

“Oh, but this is different.” Hamilton steps close and touches Laurens’ hip, a spot he has not touched before, and smiles his most winning smile. “There was work to be done but now I have darkness and solitude and you close before me.”

“Alexander…” Laurens sighs with evident restraint. “You know what you do.”

Hamilton smiles. “I do.”

Laurens runs a hand over Hamilton’s hair, his eyes ticking up and down Hamilton’s face. “You are beautiful.”

Hamilton has not been one to blush in his life. He has not been shy of his accomplishments; but now he pulls a hand back to run self-consciously over the front of his uniform. “Laurens you need not tease me.”

Laurens only smiles. “We should go. We may only hide in a closet for so long.”

Hamilton laughs and finally relents. “As you wish.”

Laurens opens the door slowly for prudence then swings it wide, stepping out into the empty hall. He gestures ahead of himself for Hamilton to precede him. Hamilton steps out and walks down the hall, his hand trailing down Laurens’ lapel as he goes.

When they walk into the tavern proper, they scoot in at the end of the long table, Laurens muttering an excuse about Hamilton’s cut and a letter to his father with Congress. Tilghman starts to tell them about a rider which informed them of Congress’ flee from the city but Hamilton only half marks him. Where he and Laurens sit on the bench, side by side, Laurens’ hand rests between them, his fingertips making small patterns on Hamilton’s thigh. Hamilton thinks it is wondrous to be alive, to look ahead, to have Laurens beside him.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, so exciting sources!
> 
> [Bio; Hamilton's Schuylkill river mission](http://www.ushistory.org/brandywine/special/art08.htm)  
> [Washington's headquarters during the war](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Washington%27s_Headquarters_during_the_Revolutionary_War)  
> [From Alexander Hamilton to John Hancock, [18 September 1777]](https://founders.archives.gov/?q=Author%3A%22Hamilton%2C%20Alexander%22&s=1111311111&r=122) (the Italicized quote that Hamilton writes is from this letter)  
> [American Revolution timeline, Hamilton focused](https://ciceroprofacto.tumblr.com/post/137034716831/american-revolution-timeline)  
> [Warwick Furnace Frams](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Warwick_Furnace_Farms)  
> [Washington's aide-de-camps](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Washington%27s_Aides-de-Camp)  
> [Parker Ford Tavern](http://www.eastvincent.org/index.asp?SEC=301AFB7B-6AA7-496D-949B-5080035A30A0&Type=B_BASIC)


End file.
